Duainfey (17 page)

"Memory . . . heals last," he said slowly, and for third time—"They woke you too soon."

"So it would seem," Meripen agreed, lifting his head to look at the dusty stars. "Better, perhaps, that they had not wakened me at all."

The scent of coffee woke her, and a gentle hand on her hair. She smiled, and stretched, her newly opened eyes falling immediately upon Altimere's face.

"Good," he murmured, smiling gravely. "Breakfast has just arrived. I've brought you coffee, here." He nodded to the cup steaming gently on the bedside table. "I will also bring you something to eat, if you will tell me what you would like."

Becca pushed herself up against the pillows, the blanket falling away from her breasts and her ruined arm. She grabbed for the covers, then let them go as contentment washed through her, and picked up the coffee cup instead.

"You are not my servant," she said, slowly. "I can rise and come to table."

"Ah, but I wish to serve you in this manner," he said gallantly, and lifted a thin brow. "Also, it is prudent, until we can find you proper lounging clothes."

Becca felt her cheeks heat, and bent her head to her coffee.

"No," he murmured, stroking her ruined arm, his fingers sowing warmth, just as they had last night. "No shame, sweet child. Never any shame, for aught that you may do."

She looked up at him quizzically, searching the cool face. "No shame? Have
you
no shame, Altimere?"

His expression altered; she was aware of a slight chill in the air, and then it was burned away by the pride in his amber eyes.

"I am ashamed for
nothing
that I have done," he said austerely. "I may be the last of my house, but none will say that I am the least. I have continued the house's work, and increased it. I reside within the seventh tier of the Constant, second only to Diathen the Queen, and my workings do not go awry."

Rebecca stared up at him, feeling the strength of his pride. "Indeed, I see that you have no shame," she stammered. "But I
have
shamed my house, and if I have increased my own learning, it is in small things."

Altimere placed his finger against her lips, silencing her. "You are a woman of deed and power. That your deeds were denounced by those with little understanding and your power went unnoticed by those who are blind is nothing to cause you shame. The shame is theirs, sweet child. Only and forever theirs." He took his finger away, smiling.

"Now, tell me what it is you wish to eat, and I will bring it. Then we will dress and call for our horses and ride out into this marvelous, sunny day."

"That sounds delightful," she said truthfully, and looked up at him. "Toast, please, and jam and—if there is ham . . ."

"There is all of that," he said, rising. "I will bring it while you drink your coffee."

Obediently, Becca sipped carefully, delighting in layers of flavor, the sweetness of cream complementing the acrid brown flavor. She felt it flow through her, bringing her nerves to full alert. She finished the cup with regret, and set it aside just as Altimere stepped back into the room, bearing a tray, which he placed over her lap.

"Eat," he said, gently.

Rebecca looked from the tray to his face. "This is rather a lot of food for one person—won't you share?"

He smiled and inclined his head. "You must hold me excused. There is a small matter I must pursue with the host. We will have many meals together, you and I."

He ruffled her hair as if she were a child, indeed, and left her, murmuring, "Eat," once more.

Becca looked down at the laden tray—surely enough to feed Dickon and Ferdy, too!—spooned jam onto a piece of toast, and picked it up.

"I remember when I was a sprout," Ganat's voice came dreamily out of the darkness to Meri's left.

"I remember when I was a sprout, too," he said when the breeze had whispered long enough in the silence.

"D'you remember the tales they used to tell you?" the other murmured. "Of those who had gone before? The names you would be fortunate to be able to stand before, much less equal in deed?"

Meri sighed. "I do. Vamichere Pinlauf, Zuri Skaindire, Janoh Wavewalker . . ."

"Drakin Fairstar," Ganat took up the litany, "Kainen Denx, Meripen Longeye, Zozan Lochmeare . . ." He sighed, softly, and Meri heard him shift against the cushioning grasses.

"Names of glory," Ganat murmured. "Names on which to hang an hundred tales or more. And yet you wonder, don't you? Drakin Fairstar burned her hands terribly carrying starfire to the leviathan. Vamichere Pinlauf saw his wood vanish into the
keleigh
. The tales never talk of the time after—when the deed is done, the price met, and all that remains are the wounds."

"Some do," Meri said quietly. "The sea healed Drakin Fairstar's hands."

"Aye, that's so." Ganat sighed. "Is there a tale that tells us how she was healed of the death of her heartmate?"

Meri raised his head and looked at the stars shimmering against the indigo sky.

"Some wounds," he said, softly, "never heal."

The sunlight poured out of the sky like honey, coating the day with sweetness. It was as if she and Rosamunde were one creature, so well did they move together through the flavorful air, surrounded by bird song so piercingly lovely that Becca several times felt tears start to her eyes.

They rode easily, on the main road, which Altimere had pronounced perfectly safe.

"The innkeeper did allow me to know that two men had stopped by while you were still abed, asking after us. He denied us, of course, and the men went on their way, after looking in on the stables."

"So there was pursuit." Becca smiled up at him. "I wasn't foolish, then, was I?"

"Indeed you were not," he responded. "I had underestimated the value placed upon you by certain parties, and I beg your pardon."

She laughed. "Rather you should beg
their
pardon!"

Altimere tipped his head, apparently considering this. "I suppose that I should," he said eventually. "But I do not think that I will."

Becca laughed again, and Rosamunde flicked her ears, and very soon after that, they took the left fork in the road, following the sign for Selkethe.

"I've never been to Selkethe," Becca said. "What shall we find there?"

"Why not wait and see with your own eyes?"

"Because I would like to hear how it seems to you, and then compare my impressions." She glanced at him shyly. "An exercise, you see, to help me know you better."

"I do not see," he said after a small pause, "but I am willing to be taught. This has the promise of being as diverting as your question game."

"So," said Becca, after they had gone some little distance in companionable silence. "What do you like best of Selkethe?"

"Best?" He guided his horse over to the side of the road, and Rosamunde followed. Hoof beats sounded from ahead of them, coming rapidly closer. Becca urged Rosamunde to stand beside Altimere's horse.

"I believe that the thing I like best about Selkethe is that one can occasionally feel the winds of home against one's face there."

Becca laughed. "But you are cheating, sir!"

Altimere turned his head, and Becca felt her heart stutter at the icy look in his eyes. His voice, however, was merely curious. "Cheating? How so?"

In the few, strangled moments required for Becca to catch her breath, the sound of the racing hoof beats were loud.

"Why—why because you have not chosen something of Selkethe at all, but something of your home!" she managed, and leaned forward to put her hand against Rosamunde's neck. That lady blew lightly, in encouragement, Becca thought.

Altimere's thin brows drew together slightly.

"I . . . see," he said slowly. "It is the game that I am to choose something admirable of the
place itself
."

"Exactly!" Becca said, with considerable relief.

"Well, that will require some thought," Altimere mused. "If I am not allowed the winds of home, then certainly I cannot call upon proximity. I wonder . . ." He lapsed into silence just as two riders came 'round the curve in the road, riding hard.

Rosamunde stamped a foot as the pair hurtled by, but they four might have been invisible, for all the attention the riders spared them. So quickly did they ride that it wasn't until the dust of their passage hung in the air that Becca cried out—"Dickon!"

Rosamunde turned in obedience to the shift of her weight. Becca gathered the reins firmly in her hand. Dickon, she thought, and the second rider—surely that had been Ferdy? And—wait! There had been two searchers at the inn this morning, Altimere had told her so. The innkeeper had denied them, and they had gone on—to the next inn, Becca thought, and finding no sign of them there, were returning—

"Hold." Altimere's voice was soft, and he did not deign to put his hand out to take Rosamunde's bridle, but the quarter-Fey horse stopped just the same.

Becca turned to face him.

"That was Dickon!" she exclaimed. "My brother—and, and Ferdy Quince!"

"Yes," he said calmly. "I recognized them."

"But—"

"They are gone," he said, and Becca felt suddenly lightheaded; her thoughts melted, running like honey, and the day took fire around her, abruptly and painfully beautiful. She looked down, becoming instantly lost in rapt contemplation of the texture of Rosamunde's mane as it fell across her neck . . . 

"Now then," Altimere said.

Becca looked up, smiling at him. "You, sir, are unhandsome! Is there no single thing in Selkethe which is admirable? Almost, I begin to believe you find all of us here on the far side of the Boundary despicable."

"No, no," said Altimere soothingly, setting his mount into motion. "You wrong me, Miss Beauvelley. I do not find all of you here on the far side of the Boundary despicable. Not at all. And as for Selkethe—there is a very pleasant little bridge over a quick-flowing stream at the edge of the village. You and I will walk there, if you like, and you will give me your opinion."

"Done!" she said happily. "Now, sir . . ."

"What, is there more?" He glanced back at her, eyebrows elevated. "How much do you wish to know of me?"

"Everything," she told him, surprised by the fierceness of her voice.

"You do me too much honor," he murmured. "But I think, instead of another game, we should let the horses run." He leaned forward slightly, and the big stallion took his leave immediately.

"Catch them, beautiful lady!" Becca cried, and gave Rosamunde her head.

Of course they did catch Altimere and his mount eventually—at Bordertown Inn. He had already dismounted by the time Rosamunde and Becca galloped into the yard. A boy ran out to grab Rosamunde's bridle, and Altimere stepped in front of the stable boy, holding his arms up with a smile. Becca slid out of the saddle, trusting him to catch her, as if they had done the same numerous times. It warmed her, this trust that had risen so quickly between them.

Altimere treasures me,
she thought as they strolled arm-in-arm into the inn. Dickon would be so pleased.

And wasn't it odd, Dickon passing them on the road like that? She should have called out sooner, to let him know she was well and with someone who treasured her, just as he had wanted her to—

"A private parlor." Altimere's voice broke her thoughts into an hundred bright pieces. "A cold nuncheon, wine and tea."

Selkethe was larger than she had expected, its high street lined on both sides with shops, and thin off-shoot alleys fragrant with the aromas of baking breads and savory cooking. From the sheer number of bistros and restaurants, it would appear that none of the population of Selkethe ever cooked for themselves, or needed to.

At the end of the high street was the market square, empty this late in the day, except for a few townsfolk clustered 'round a booth beneath a flowing orange canopy.

"Ah," Altimere said, and patted Becca's hand where it rested on his arm. "Shall you like to meet another Fey, Miss Beauvelley? To see, perhaps, if you have made a bad bargain?"

"I'd certainly like to meet another Fey," Rebecca responded. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"A friend?" Altimere appeared to taste the word. "No, I do not think a . . . 
friend
. Say rather, an old acquaintance."

"Surely, then, a friend?" Becca said, as they walked toward the tent.

"What makes you insist upon that, I wonder?"

"Well, one would hardly continue an association that was repugnant to one long enough to have achieved an
old
acquaintance?"

They strolled on, close enough now for Becca to see that the goods offered in sale were fabrics.

"How charmingly naïve," Altimere said. "Be a good child, now, and mind your manners."

They paused at the edge of the booth, waiting politely while a portly lady with the red scarf over her hair finished dickering for a shimmering length of fabric so green it looked as if it had been loomed from new grass.

Content to stand there with her hand on Altimere's arm, feeling warm and pleasantly languorous, Becca watched the Fey trader. He was every bit as tall as Altimere, and slightly slimmer, with the same strong nose and thin features. His hair was a riot of pale copper ringlets, and his gestures, as he displayed the bolt to the lady in the red kerchief were made with a familiar casual elegance. He might, Becca thought, be Altimere's younger brother, dressed in gypsy colors and flowing sleeves for market-day.

"Done!" The trader sang out strongly. The lady reached into her pocket and pulled out three coins, which she placed on the plank before reaching for her bolt. The trader, for his part, extended his hand to the coins—and snatched it back.

"Madam," he said reproachfully to the lady. She colored, hurriedly snatched up the center coin and produced another to take its place.

"Excellent!" the Fey trader said, giving her a broad and not quite completely sincere smile.

"This cloth will keep its virtue even if made up into clothing," she said, sounding anxious now.

"Indeed," the Fey assured her, and she gathered the bolt close to her bosom and moved off.